Some sandwiches hurt more than heartbreak. I embarked on a mission to find the best chain cheesesteaks, but instead uncovered a trail of soggy bread, bland beef, and cheese with commitment issues.
Some bites were simply forgettable; others were culinary crimes against Philadelphia itself. Here’s how 15 disappointed—and how 5 went down in greasy, tragic flames.
1. Subway’s Steak & Cheese
Good lord, what atrocity have they committed here? The “steak” resembles soggy cardboard that’s been marinated in disappointment and microwaved to rubbery perfection. Subway employees slice the meat so thin you need an electron microscope to confirm it exists.
The cheese doesn’t melt properly, instead forming a plastic-like film that sticks to the roof of your mouth. I’m convinced they designed this sandwich specifically to make Philadelphians weep.
2. Arby’s Philly Beef ‘n Swiss
Arby’s audacity knows no bounds. Calling this monstrosity a “Philly” anything should be grounds for legal action. The meat tastes like it was harvested from a prehistoric beast then preserved in sodium for future generations.
Swiss cheese on a cheesesteak? That’s like putting ketchup on filet mignon—a crime against humanity. The sandwich arrives drowning in some mystery sauce that adds nothing but confusion and regret.
3. Dairy Queen’s Philly Cheese Steak
Shocking twist: an ice cream chain makes terrible cheesesteaks! Who could’ve predicted this catastrophe? The meat tastes like it was frozen alongside their Blizzards, then hastily thawed under someone’s armpit.
The bread achieves the impossible—simultaneously soggy AND stale. My taste buds filed a formal complaint after this experience. I needed three Blizzards to wash away the memory, which might have been their evil plan all along. Diabolical ice cream pushers.
4. Charleys Philly Steaks
Mall food court royalty, Charleys somehow manages to make cheesesteaks that smell better than they taste. The theatrical grill show is more entertaining than the actual product—like watching a magician turn good ingredients into mediocrity.
Their meat-to-bread ratio is criminal. I’ve found more substantial protein content in a breath mint. The cheese congeals faster than concrete, forming an impenetrable layer between you and any potential flavor.
5. Jersey Mike’s Big Kahuna Cheesesteak
Holy sodium bomb! This sandwich should come with a cardiologist’s business card and a medical waiver. Jersey Mike’s manages to pack approximately three days’ worth of salt into each bite, making your tongue feel like it wandered into Death Valley.
The peppers and mushrooms are so overcooked they’ve surrendered all cellular structure. I’ve seen more vibrant vegetation in desert documentaries. Their cheese application technique can only be described as “aggressive disinterest.”
6. Firehouse Subs’ Steak & Cheese
Firefighters risk their lives daily—and after eating this sandwich, so did I. Firehouse Subs has mastered the art of making meat taste like it was rescued from a burning building. Not in a good, smoky way, but in a “this protein has trauma” way.
The bread’s so steamed it practically disintegrates upon contact, creating a soggy catastrophe. Ever tried eating soup with a fork? Same experience.
7. Wawa’s Classic Cheesesteak
Convenience store cuisine at its most ambitious! Wawa’s touchscreen ordering system is more sophisticated than their actual cheesesteak. The meat comes in perfect uniformity—identical sad little pieces that make you question if they’re manufactured rather than cut.
The cheese looks melted but somehow maintains the temperature of polar ice. Scientific impossibility? Or culinary negligence? You decide. I’ve had better sandwiches from vending machines.
8. Sheetz MTO Philly Steak Sub
Gas station gourmets rejoice! Sheetz somehow manages to make a cheesesteak that tastes exactly like its environment—fuel with notes of air freshener. The meat has that distinctive pre-cooked, reheated quality that screams “I’ve been sitting in a steam tray contemplating my existence.”
Their cheese application is stunningly inconsistent. One bite: dairy desert. Next bite: cheese avalanche. The vegetables taste like they were cut last presidential administration.
9. Penn Station’s Philly Cheesesteak
Not the train station, though the comparison to locomotive fuel isn’t entirely inappropriate. Penn Station’s cheesesteak commits the unforgivable sin of blandness. How do you make beef, cheese, and bread boring? It’s like they’ve extracted the soul from each ingredient.
The meat has the distinct texture of something that’s been frozen, thawed, and reheated multiple times—the culinary equivalent of a bad photocopy. Their grilled vegetables somehow manage to be simultaneously undercooked and mushy.
10. Roy Rogers’ Philly Cheesesteak
Howdy, pardner! Ready for a Wild West interpretation of a Philadelphia classic? Roy Rogers’ cheesesteak tastes like it was made by someone who heard about cheesesteaks through a game of telephone—across state lines, during a windstorm.
The meat resembles what you’d scrape off your boots after a cattle drive. Their cheese application technique can only be described as “vengeful.” Every bite contains either no cheese or enough to make a Wisconsin dairy farmer blush.
11. Potbelly’s Cheesesteak
Potbelly’s cheesesteak makes me question whether anyone in their test kitchen has ever visited Philadelphia or, frankly, eaten food. The meat comes in microscopic fragments that get lost in their overly-toasted bread like children in a corn maze.
The cheese distribution follows no discernible pattern—quantum physics has more predictability. One section drowns in provolone while another remains a dairy-free wasteland.
12. Which Wich’s Philly Cheesesteak
Which Wich? More like Which Switch did they pull to make beef taste like nothing? Their build-your-own approach means you can customize your disappointment, which is thoughtful, I guess.
The meat appears in uniform slices so thin they’re practically transparent—culinary ghost meat. I’ve seen more substantial protein content in vegetarian options. Their cheese melts with all the enthusiasm of a teenager doing chores. The bread—oh, the bread—has a hollowed-out center that collapses faster than my hopes for this sandwich.
13. Jack In The Box’s Philly Cheesesteak
Jack in the Box serving cheesesteaks makes about as much sense as me performing brain surgery. Their version features meat of indeterminate origin, sliced with what must be manufacturing equipment borrowed from a paper mill.
The cheese sauce glows with an unnatural luminescence that should concern environmental protection agencies. I’m pretty sure it’s the same substance they use to make those light-up Halloween necklaces.
Their vegetables have been steamed beyond recognition—green and red things that once may have been peppers in a previous life.
14. White Castle’s Cheesesteak Slider
Imagine taking something already small and making it smaller—that’s White Castle’s contribution to cheesesteak evolution. These tiny disappointments contain approximately three molecules of meat per slider, mathematically insufficient to register on taste buds.
The cheese comes in a peculiar state of matter unknown to science—neither solid nor liquid but some quantum superposition of dairy. Their onions, however, are abundant enough to ensure your breath remains socially problematic for days.
15. Carl’s Jr. Philly Cheesesteak Burger
An identity crisis served on a bun! Is it a burger? Is it a cheesesteak? It’s neither and should apologize to both food categories immediately. Carl’s Jr. has mastered the art of culinary confusion with this hybrid abomination.
The steak pieces have the consistency of pencil erasers—chewy, gray, and leaving debris behind. They’ve managed to make a sandwich that’s simultaneously dry and greasy, a paradox that defies gastronomy.
Their cheese application resembles a dairy explosion at a processing plant.
16. Sonic’s Cheesesteak
Sonic’s carhops deliver this disaster with such cheerful efficiency that you almost feel bad about the impending disappointment. Their “toaster” bread achieves the impossible feat of being both burnt and undercooked—crispy blackened exterior, doughy sad interior.
The steak pieces appear to have been cut by someone having an active seizure—some chunks could choke a horse while others are microscopic. No middle ground exists in Sonic’s meat-cutting philosophy.
17. Steak ‘n Shake’s Frisco Cheesesteak
Steak ‘n Shake should stick to their namesake items because this cheesesteak is an insult to both Philadelphia and my digestive tract. Their “Frisco” bread tastes like it was made with equal parts flour and disappointment, then toasted to remove any remaining moisture.
The steak arrives in such microscopic portions you need an electron microscope to confirm its existence. I’ve seen more generous meat servings at vegan restaurants!
18. Schlotzsky’s Philly Cheesesteak
Pronouncing “Schlotzsky’s” is more enjoyable than eating their cheesesteak. Their signature sourdough oval might work for other sandwiches but transforms a cheesesteak into a bready wilderness where meat and cheese get lost like hikers without GPS.
The meat-to-bread ratio is so skewed you could qualify this as a breadsteak rather than a cheesesteak. Their steak strips have the distinctive texture of something that was frozen during the Bush administration—the first one.
19. McAlister’s Deli Cheesesteak
McAlister’s serves this monstrosity with a pickle spear, presumably so you have something edible on your plate. Their interpretation of steak involves meat so processed it’s essentially beef-adjacent protein matter with commitment issues.
The cheese comes in a peculiar state—simultaneously melted and congealed, like it’s having an existential crisis on your sandwich. Every bite requires Olympic-level jaw strength. Their vegetables maintain impressive inconsistency—some bites contain none, others unleash a garden ambush.
20. Cousins Subs’ Philly Cheese Steak
Whoever at Cousins Subs decided they could make a respectable cheesesteak deserves a lifetime ban from Philadelphia. The meat resembles what you’d get if you described beef to an alien who’d never seen a cow, then asked them to recreate it from memory.
Their cheese application follows the “surprise and confuse” method—some parts drowning, others bone dry. Halfway through, I was essentially eating cheesesteak-flavored porridge.